


Soldier, Doctor, Lightning Rod

by aurora_boreali



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_boreali/pseuds/aurora_boreali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  John and Sherlock's first kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier, Doctor, Lightning Rod

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd introduce myself to the AO3 community by posting this story, my first attempt at fan fiction. I've written many more, all for the Sherlock fandom. They're posted on LJ and FF under the usernames aurora_boreali and akaauroraborealis, respectively. Sorry if this is old hat. Fresh material is coming. 
> 
> AB

**Title:** Soldier, Doctor, Lightning Rod

 **Rating:** PG

 **Pairings:** John/Sherlock

 **Warnings:** None

 **Word Count:** 670

 **Summary:**   John and Sherlock's first kiss.

 

**Soldier, Doctor, Lightning Rod**

He kissed him just inside the door, in the hallway where they hung up their coats. They had been running for their lives, for the game, always exhilarating, but tonight he was more amped than usual, his body humming with excess energy. He kissed him because he needed to ground that spark, that heat lightning that was always in the air between them on nights like this. He wanted to feel it course through him, burning and alive. His friend Lestrade would later guess that it was the accumulated tension from months of hot pursuits, close escapes, and daring rescues that had led to this. Only later would John figure out the true cause; that the mercurial and cerebral dynamo that had taken over his life, whom he loved so dearly, would surely destroy him if left unchecked; that a kiss, so powerful in its intimacy, so earthy in its physicality, was his only recourse in restoring balance to the most important relationship in his life. But none of this was on his mind tonight; only the spark, the desire to connect, to burn. So, with no plan, no agenda, John stretched himself up to reach his goal, the slightly open mouth of the lithe dark-haired man now slouching against the wall of the dim corridor in a pose of rare tranquility.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise as John approached, but he also leaned forward, giving his consent. And, with small gestures, a slight tilt of his head, his hands coming to rest on the small of John's back, Sherlock said "yes" to it all. He accepted John's fingers weaving through his loose curls, accepted his other hand urgently pulling at the lapel of his coat. He even accepted the bold incursion of John's mouth against his own when the distance between them, at long last, closed.

At the start they both were still breathless, so John's kiss was really a series of three encounters, three meetings between gasping inhalations, expanding chests, and pounding pulses that John felt echoing back and forth between them where their bodies touched. At first he and Sherlock were out of sync, lips, breath, and pulse in wild syncopation. But by the third meeting, their lips now connecting softer and longer and with less force and more finesse, they were in unison. John was leading, Sherlock following, adapting his stance, his mouth to accommodate John's advances. For John, being able to lead Sherlock in anything was exhilarating: in kissing, it was ecstatic.

The kiss, which had begun as an impulse, an action he never foresaw, could not even have imagined, felt as right as anything John had ever done. No wonder that, when he stepped back and gazed, blinking and a little dazed, at the man who had just become the total object of his desire and affection, John felt his gut clench. Sherlock had allowed the kiss, but had Sherlock desired it? Sherlock was staring at him placidly, his face reflective, thoughtful. There was no telling what was going through his mind, and John wasn't going to ask. Only now did John realize how much was at stake. Before the kiss, life with Sherlock had been a thrill, had John soaring like a tailless kite flying in a stiff breeze. And his life with Sherlock was more still: it was a purpose, perfect companionship, love, and home. How could he have been so stupid as to have risked it? The once cozy corridor was becoming claustrophobic, and John's leg began to ache. As he looked at the floor and started to mumble something about going up to start the kettle, Sherlock spoke. "I love that you care." Those words and Sherlock's softened features, with no hint of irony, told him all he needed to know. Without another word, the two headed up the stairs, John following Sherlock, per usual. John wondered whether he would ever regret his addiction to danger, to taking chances. Maybe someday, but not tonight.


End file.
